In Rhyme

In Rhyme
Imagine we spoke in poetry, you and I.
If I left out a line, you could fill it
and the emptiness would disappear.
For now, my words are lacking wit,
but in silence, you’re all ears
yet I can’t speak in rhyme.

The cadence falls short, we’re losing time.
If I could read your face a little bit
perhaps I’d write out all my fears
and we would see the rhythm fits.
But sadly speechless, you don’t hear
the raindrops in my mind.

The images I have become these lines.
If picture perfect never quit
or I was skillful at telling tears,
what color painting would transmit
the thoughts that I hold near
and who would know it's mine?

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This is what can happen if you decide that you need a status update and come up with a couple lines of poetry. For instance, the first three lines of this poem. But I thought it would be weird to post it, so instead I wrote a poem and set my status as happily writing poetry. Hey it all works out. Hope you like it!

2 Separate Topics: The Wound And Fantasy Stories

Wrote a poem the other night, distressed by the very topic of the poem.

The Wound
It’s all I talked about that night:
the gash above your eye
and the way someone else helped you
until you said you were fine.

I didn’t mention to anyone
the sweat at my nape
or the uselessness of my arms
while all I did was wait.

I couldn’t say out loud
that I wanted to go with you
and watch through the night;
there was nothing to do.

Wishing to comfort, to say
anything to be of use
I was as silent as a window
catching both reflections and the view.

And all I said when you went
was “Good luck. It might leave a dent.”

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Now for the actual story. So I went to a YSA activity and everything was going great. Then as things were coming to a close, a new friend of mine and another friend were play-fighting. He claimed that he would pick her up and carry her around the church building; she said she'd like to see him try. So he did pick her up, and somehow accidentally swung her head into the edge of a door. I wasn't there, but heard about it soon afterward. She had a gash above her eye that was bleeding a lot. She claimed it wasn't bad. Meanwhile the other guy was understandably flustered and feeling terrible, but as luck would have it, he was also a paramedic. Imagine having your head bashed by a paramedic. Anyway, he got his stuff from his car and started treating her and called some paramedic friends so that things would be ready by the time they got to the hospital because she needed stitched. She was fine, but it was still nerve-racking thinking about it. I literally couldn't think of much else the rest of the night. And that's how I started composing this poem in my head, feeling that the incident left a mark in me too, just because I felt so useless to help. No one likes to feel useless. And remember the poems not fully non-fiction; I didn't actually say that last line (It was something more like 'Good luck. Hope everything goes well.'

Anyway, now to a completely different topic that I was also thinking about today - The amazingness of sci-fi and fantasy stories, well done ones. I just finished "The Black Cauldron" by Lloyd Alexander and felt that it really portrays well the main character, Taran. Sure the book isn't as literary as some books out there, but thinking about it, most of the best sci-fi and fantasy books that I have read have heroes that are willing to sacrifice for the good of others. As they develop, they seek less for honor than for the well-being of others and they throw away their pride. They become humble. In an increasingly prideful world, I think these lessons are doubly important. Taran, for instance, starts off headstrong and energetic and impetuous. But as he continues to experience things, he begins to become a really humble and honorable character. He seeks not for honor, but gets it for that very reason. Ender from Ender's game saves the world and is then forced into exile, but lives the rest of his life trying to make amends. Percy Jackson from the Percy Jackson series, starts off much like Taran except less energetic and more confused, but throughout the series he learns better to respect and care for others and that he doesn't always have to be the hero. It's cool. Anyway. Thanks for reading, although I'm not sure if anyone else is reading this except for you Madelene. But that's okay, it's like a special e-mail just for you. =)

A Child on the Swing

Portrait #4 A Child on a Swing
As if time stopped, yet the pendulum still sways
so too the child swings over the lawn,
strewn with leaves and patches of green grass,
the marks of spring, the effects of winter.

And he giggles as his father pushes him up
but he falls the same way, showing no signs
the cold is getting to him, as slow as flowers grow
or as fast as the distant chiming clock.

The yard would be empty without him,
being fenced in at the back, but otherwise open,
letting the squirrels skitter across to take the acorns,
letting the only path home become overgrown.

The laughter, the chill, the motion,
the half shadow falling over them, mesmerizes.
The small swing rocks with the warm child,
while later it will only sway with the wind.

----

I wrote this poem tonight. I guess I've been feeling a little lonely today. But this morning, I was pushing my nephew Harry on the swing and I felt like time could stop. And then I thought - Hey, I could write a poem about this. So as the day went on I'd occasionally remember that I wanted to write this poem. And then I got home tonight after being at a very cold observatory and decided, NOW is the time. Yep that's the story there.

Bedtime Tales

I just finished a poem. My special follower will be the first to read it (Go Madelene!)

Bedtime Tales
When the shadows are outstretched,
reaching, as it were, across the lawn
then you'll be telling bedtime tales next
to a child, who asks between yawns
how you feel when you wake up in the night.

If you remember the mystery or the chill
not knowing where you were for a moment
and even when you found yourself you still
felt like a silhouette, and kept silent,
then can you explain it so he understands?

To dream in the darkness is a fear
and to dream in the light, a fit of madness.
But can you keep your hand tenderly near
enough to tousle hair or give light caress
when he sends out his unspoken plight?

The hero he imagines may well be you
even as the story unfolds in fantasy lands
of courage, love, of old games and new
adventures. You are the guide who stands
at the door where the unknown night expands.

-

I actually started writing this in Vermont, but I got stuck halfway through and couldn't continue. It was also really late at night. But even so, i couldn't finish it the next day either, but I knew that I wanted to finish it. And tonight I found it and the words came. Even so, I hope it fits together well. I think the ending is really nice personally.

Accomplished

Today was a great day. Why? Because I did stuff. On a mission you do stuff every hour. You accomplish. That's why at the end of the day you feel tired but you feel great. Today I studied, had classes, took my brother around the city and spent time with him, gave my sister a call, and then had dinner with friends. It was a blast. Too bad its hard to plan all those things to do it over. But when it happens, I've got to be grateful.
Life is good.

My Dad's Birthday

This is poem I composed for my Dad's birthday

Climbing Chairs, A Portrait Of My Father Sonnet #9
When I was young the table loomed so high;
I struggled to glimpse what was above,
but left below and left behind to cry
were parts of life I never learned to love.
And left alone I traveled everywhere:
the countryside and islands far from home,
to some by chance, and less by choice (for there
are winds that steer us on our course to roam.

I didn’t find what I was looking for
on China’s Wall or Cape Town’s Table Top
but standing with you, that’s what mattered more
because your youthful smile didn’t stop.
The view from here above I now can see.
A child climbs chairs; he’s looking up to me.

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Well, that's the poem. As explanation behind it, my dad often speaks of his first memory being a child wanting to know what was on top of the table. And then I took for his experiences of being a child in war torn London, being sent to the countryside. Then later in life he was in the military and went to Singapore. In fact he's traveled since then all over the place, 2 of which are mentioned. But what I've really seen about my dad is not just that he loves to travel and see new things, but that he likes to share that experience with us his kids, and with his grandkids, and with his nieces and nephews and grandnephews and yeah. He's a big family guy for which I admire him greatly. This poem is dedicated to him.

Headaches

Ever woken up with a pain in your head that your mind tries to explain by tying it into your dreams even when you know you're awake? That's when you start twisting and turning thinking that it will make a difference. You notice the clock ticking away and realize it's 4:45. You've slept a little over 4 hours. You thin, maybe I'm dehydrated, so you drink from the water bottle at you bedside, but it's not kicking in fast enough. You consider aspirin, but you know from past experience that having aspirin on an empty stomach only moves the ache from the head to the stomach. Not good. So you get up and walk around. The light in the bathroom is a little much for you, but you go there anyways. Then you randomly think of exercise and start doing push ups. Am I crazy? you think to yourself. But you feel strangely better and you realize you're just sleepy. You try to go back to bed, but its not working, so you listen to music until about 7 o'clock when you notice you haven't had a headache for a while and you go back to bed until 9.

One might say I had a similar experience this morning.

Mornin'

Well, it hit me why having a blog could be enjoyable so now I have one. Today's going to be a fun day, much better than yesterday since I'll actually get to see people today. I get lonely, in a sense, when I don't see anyone, especially if I was counting on it. After all, there's only so much I can do by myself. Oh well, life is good.